The Time Traveler's Son
by Alias - Eyelash - Blue
Summary: Kendrick calls me. "Clare," he says, "I think there's something you should see." There is a boy, stalk naked of course. He looks like Henry. He isn't, the eyes are different, and I know Henry is dead. "Mom," Alba says, "This is my half brother, William."
1. Chapter 1

* * *

Monday, May 12, 2008

(William is 15)

**William: **I open my eyes and stare at a ceiling that is completely unfamiliar. Usually I only time travel to places I've been before, but this place, or ceiling at least, I have no memories of. I'm completely naked (of course), and the carpet feels prickly against my back. I close my eyes again, thinking that maybe if I don't see any more, I can pretend I'm not here and wish myself back to 2024. The wishing doesn't work.

"William?" I don't want to be here.

I open my eyes. "Hi Susan," I say. I can't bring myself to call her 'Mother'. I'm still looking at the ceiling, which is damp and stained.

"New flat?" I ask, as I sit up, and I see her, calmly watching me from across the room. She nods. "Nice," I comment, though It's cheap and disgusting, and the furniture clearly came with the room and isn't hers.

She throws me her dressing gown. The cloth is faded and pink, and only just long enough to cover me. I stand in the room stiffly, partly because I don't want to move for the risk of flashing, and partly because I feel I shouldn't be here. I don't have a mother. Never had one. This woman is just the person who gave birth to me, but she hasn't been my parent. I don't know why I keep visiting her like this, but it isn't my choice. She sits quietly in an armchair opposite me, with the dark window profiling her from behind. She's just watching me, and I can feel the waves of depression emanating from her and rolling over me, and I know it's me that's screwed up her life like this.

"What's the date?"

"May 12, 2008," she says. I swear I feel my heart starting to beat faster.

"Has he come yet?" I ask.

"No," she says.

"But I checked," I say, feeling the unwelcome panic swirl in my stomach, "I worked it out. This should be the date I was conceived. He should have come,"

"He hasn't," she says and I notice how blank her voice is, how she keeps staring at me like that. I know I've fucked this up, but I was a kid before, I didn't know how to do this.

"No!" I say. Maybe it's the fact that I've never met either of my parents in the present that I want to make sure my conception goes right. "His name is Henry, and he's a time traveler, and he appears naked, and then you have sex, and then you have _me._" That's how it should go.

"And then I die," Susan whispers, and she looks at me with tears in her eyes.

"What?" I say. I've never mentioned that. I _know _I haven't been that stupid. I've made a point not to talk about what she'd be doing in my present.

"I die in childbirth," she says mournfully, and I hear in her voice that there's no hope left. She's already counting down the months and days. Minutes. "You kill me,"

"No," I say again, because It's all I can think of, though it's true.

"And you say everything is inevitable,"

No, nothing is inevitable. I'm sure. That's why I'm here. I want to make sure you do it. I want to make sure it happens right.

I want to say all this to her, to try explain and apologise to her and me, but before I can, I feel my ears pop, and my knees crumble. I start to fall backwards but before I hit the floor I've vanished.

I want to make sure I exist, but in the process I'm ruining my mother's remaining life. Except she's not my mother, because she never mothered me. I don't know if I should have done that or not, said that or not, but I know that somehow I already did. I just talked my mother through my conception, and if I hadn't then she wouldn't have had me. Becoming your own grandfather must be straightforward compared to this.

* * *

Thursday, May 15, 2008

(Henry is 24)

**Henry:** I'm somewhere in the future, feeling the effects of half drunkenness and half hangover I haven't had yet. I'm wearing absolutely nothing and I'm pissed off. Well, I'm not entirely coherent enough to be pissed off yet, but man I will be. I close my eyes against the lights that are dotted across my vision, take a step forward, and drop over onto my hands and knees.

Why me? One minute I'm having a perfectly nice time getting wasted in some Chicago club, the next, all the slowly accumulated drink that has been sloshing around pleasantly is coming up my throat and heaving itself onto the lino of some future world.

There's a gasp, and I realise the owner of this lino, is now watching a naked man retch on her kitchen floor.

I see her feet first; she's wearing yellow socks, and tight jeans.

I manage to look up, and the woman is, of course, staring at me in utter horror. Her dark eyes wide in her tanned face, shaped eyebrows arched in shock. She's holding a mug at a jaunty angle, and is frozen in the act of stirring the cup.

"Hello," I croak, trying to smile, before realising it makes me look like a maniac and I stop. I lie still as another wave of dizziness comes, waiting for her to run screaming, or brandish a kitchen knife, or any of those other dramatic reactions I am beginning to expect from such encounters. She doesn't, instead she blinks a couple of times, and carefully puts down the mug.

She leans down to be level with my face, takes a deep breath, and says, "Hello," very slowly and gently, and I know I have been spared. "I'm Susan. Who are you?" She's talking to me like we're acting really badly, like we're in some weird play, but this is honestly better than a 911 call.

"Henry," I say, "Could I perhaps have something to eat, and some clothes? Or at least a ten minute delay so I can run away?"

When I say Henry, she starts and peers at me, suddenly scrutinizing me, and then to my surprise she hooks a hand under my arm, and helps heave me into a chair. Her entire attitude changes dramatically; she's no longer wary and careful, but businesslike, with a hint of resigned desperation.

"There's bread and cheese, will that do? I just moved in so I don't have much here," Her totally controlled, oddly calm approach somehow puts me off and I'm jittery and nervous, although I feel unusually solid and present, so I guess I won't be going any time soon.

"Have we met?" I ask nervously.

"Nope," she says, and flashes me a grin. The grin is strange, false, manic. She's practically radiating purpose now. "Cheese? Bread?"

"Yeah great," I say, deciding to just go with it. Whatever happens, happens anyway. "And the clothes?"

She turns to me, and leans on the counter, and without hiding it, looks me up and down; a small, quiet smile slinks onto her face. I feel incredibly self-conscious, considering I'm shivering, sweating and entirely naked. "Oh I think we'll leave you as you are," she says.

"What?" I say, "But that's not fair!" Which isn't really what I mean to say.

"Okay fine," Susan says, and before I know what's happening she's unzipped her jeans. And she's stripping down to her underwear too.

* * *

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

(Henry is 42, William is born)

**Henry:** I appear crouched on the floor, in the fetal position, naked. A montage of flashing images streams through my mind; green tiles, white coats, scrubs. I'm in a hospital somewhere. I don't move. I don't feel solid. I can tell it's the future. My ears are ringing and I can hear voices, but not clearly, everything feels as if it's flickering, or maybe that's me shaking. I can't tell.

I make out a crowd of people just in front of me, but none of them have noticed my arrival. They all have their back to me, entranced by some other wonder taking place.

I tuck my head down into my chest, feeling nauseous, and I hear a voice say "She's not going to make it, but maybe we can save the child."

Who's child? My first thought is Clare, and I raise my head suddenly, creating black spots in front of my vision, but I have to see. I have to check before I go. As if responding to my thoughts the crowd parts a little.

"He's coming," they say, and I see splayed legs; legs I recognise, tanned and long, but taut now, and the woman is screaming. And I recognise the scream too. Susan? I think, asking myself the question, though I know already.

"He's here!" a doctor cries, "William Henry Castawaye, born 6:23am, Tuesday 24th February, 2009."

And only then do I remember the night, when they say my name, Henry, as part of his, and I realise with dread that I have a son. The thought alone sends me into another bout of nausea. I see someone turn, the nurse's eyes fix on me, and a voice shouts out, "Hey, there's a man-" but then I am gone. Blown away. That's what the new fathers always say; I was blown away.

His birth was the first and only time I saw him, so I don't tell Clare. He was from before. Some stupid, drunken, time travelling mistake, you could say. So I don't tell Clare because he's really nothing to do with her. I don't tell her he'll be growing up in her present.


	2. Chapter 2

Monday May 19, 2014

(Alba is 13. Clare is 43. William is 10)

**Alba:** She's still waiting for him. Mom. She always will. Even though we both know he's not going to turn up again. I can always see her, watching out of the corner of her eye. Waiting. Every time I come back from somewhere I can see the question in her face, though she's stopped asking it out loud, and I see her disappointment when I say something like, "I just went to Tiffany's house in 2005," and don't mention Dad. I think she hopes every time I travel that I might see him, but I don't very often, and if I do, it's usually before he's met mom. I can never seem to get the timing right. The last time I saw Dad was three years ago, when we went to the art museum, and the only time Mom saw him. I'm not sure she believes me when I say I haven't seen him since. When she got the call, she shot me a look, like I deliberately didn't tell her something. I think she realised she'd done that though, and she regretted it because she gave me a little hug and raised her eyebrows at me like, 'who could it be?'.

And now I'm in the backseat, hoping seatbelts work as good as they say, and Mom's driving fast down the highway. She wants to get there before he goes. She's still hoping, but I'm not because I know it can't be Dad. It must be someone though?

* * *

**Clare: **I'm driving way too fast, cutting into lanes and getting angry honks from other drivers, but I don't care. Alba is in the backseat with a look of harassment that's too mature for her adolescent face. It makes me smile, but that could just be from nervousness. Oh god, I'm thinking. The red light slams onto the traffic light, halting me, and I almost want to yell with frustration. I can't stand it.

I put my foot down hard as soon as it blinks back to orange and the car lurches forward. Alba makes some sort of sarcastic complaint from the backseat, but I take no notice. The conversation I had with Kendrick twenty minutes earlier is repeating itself in my head.

_"Clare," he says, sounding urgent and worried. "I think there's something you need to see,"_

_"Something with Alba's research?" I ask, thinking maybe there's been some sort of breakthrough, though Alba can't try it until she's sixteen._

_"No," he says, and something about that word gives me a strange sense of trepidation. "A boy has just... appeared," And I feel like the entire earth rotating round the sun has paused, waiting for my response.  
_

_"Do you think... Henry?" I barely dare to ask._

_"Could be..." Kendrick says, but he sounds uncertain. "He's young. I can't be sure," Even so the feeling of hope that has just begun to surface will not be dampened. _

_"I'm coming," I say strongly, and hang up, not wanting to waste any more time talking when I could be driving._

Since that conversation my feelings of brewing hope and excitement have been growing despite my efforts to quell them. I know If I'm wrong my heart may break all over again, but I don't want to miss this chance. One more chance. Even to meet Henry as a child. Just to have some connection with him would help keep me going. Though I shouldn't need Henry to keep me going. I have a wonderful career, fantastic friends, and a beautiful, amazing daughter, and yet every day without Henry feels like it is lacking something, and now that feeling is permanent. I do need Henry, but I can't have him.

I pull up outside The Kendrick Research Centre for Chrono-displacement, and leap out of the car, dragging Alba with me. Kendrick meets us just inside the door, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, smart suited and professional as always. He immediately leads us hurriedly down the corridor, trying to explain as we walk and as soon as he speaks I can tell he's freaked out. He can't keep the shock in his voice as well hidden as in his appearance.

"He arrived about half an hour ago, when I called, but he seems to be under general anesthetic and hasn't fully regained consciousness yet," Kendrick sees my face and says quickly, "But of course you can see him. We don't know how long he'll stay,"

We stop just outside a thick, grey door, and everybody seems to pause to prepare themselves. "In here," Kendrick motions. I find myself, now that I'm here almost scared of entering. I anxiously, push the door open, and it glides effortlessly across the floor without a sound. I've been holding my breath in anticipation, and let it out slowly as I walk into the room. The lights are dimmed low, and the atmosphere is hushed and fragile, as if the slightest wrong gesture will break the spell. For some reason, I'm almost shaking as I approach the young boy in a borrowed sweater that goes down to his knees, laid out on the table.

My breath catches in my throat as I stare down at him. He looks about ten or eleven, and so alike to Henry I find myself wondering. My heart starts to beat faster as the possibility forms in my mind. Is it Henry? The face shape is the same, though round and young I can see the cheekbones and contours that make up the adults face, and the hair, though curling around his small shoulders in cherub style waves, is the same colour. Somehow I'm imposing my husband onto the image of this little boy, but I know from old photo albums that the likeness between this boy and young Henry in the photographs is too eerily accurate to be coincidence.

I've been too absorbed in my own fantasies to notice that Alba has been following me closely, without making a sound. Too involved in myself to wonder what she thinks of all this, but I suddenly remember her when she makes a small gasp of recognition behind me. I turn around to face her, thrilled light shining in my eyes. Has she met this little boy Henry before? Does she recognise him? But she isn't looking at me. She's staring at the boy, and she breathes a name that I don't catch.

My eyes are pulled back to the sleeping boy, who is opening his eyes blearily. And then the shock of something familiar becoming startlingly different makes me reel. It isn't Henry. The eyes are different. I know Henry's eyes, and I know that at whatever age, be it three or forty three, Henry's eyes are always the same. Deep, mysterious gray. This is not Henry, and now I know with the depressing certainty that comes every time my hopes are dashed, that Henry is dead... and gone...

This boy's eyes are a rich brown, as he blinks confusedly up at us. "Mom," Alba says quietly from behind me, "This is my half brother, William,"

I don't know how to react to that or what response to give. "I've met him before, in the future, but this is the first time he's come here," Still I say nothing, though my mouth gapes open as I fumble for words.

William is rediscovering himself, picking at the sweater, exploring the hard table, rubbing his head. "I don't want..." He mumbles, "I said I _don't!"_

"William?" Alba ventures worriedly. The boy Henry lookalike freezes, blinking a bit more, taking into account the new information. He looks up at her.

"Alba?" he says, slurring a little with the last traces of tiredness. "Why are you here? Did you stop them?"

"Stop who?"

"They were going to make me, but I _said _I don't want to,"

William is beginning to focus more. His eyes wander over me and he begins to frown. I'm probably mirroring his mildly anxious, perplexed expression as I watch Alba crouch down next to the table. It makes a very surreal picture. My daughter, her inky black hair falling over her face, smiling at the young boy who I can't stop likening to her father, as my eyes pick out the details that are similar if not exactly the same.

"You time travelled William," Alba prompts. I feel I'm missing something here, as Alba looks at the little boy with a strong, sisterly fondness. "Where did you think you were?"

"Hospital..." The little boy says, with an inflection in his voice that inexplicably brings me close to tears.

"How old are you?"

"Ten," he answers proudly, brightening. "And three months," He sits up and swings himself round, so his bare feet are dangling off the edge of the table.

"Alba..." I finally find my voice again. I want to say 'I don't understand', but it seems childish, and the wrong way round for me to be asking my thirteen year old daughter for help. "Where did he come from?" I stutter, "I mean, where is he in the present? How did this..." I trail off. How did this happen?

"He made me promise not to say anything," Alba says glumly.

And then little William speaks up in a high, quavering voice. "Alba, I feel sick,"

And then he vanishes and all that is left of him is the sweater in a crumpled heap, Alba's guilty but stubborn expression and her refusal to explain properly.


	3. Author Note

**This has been copied and pasted from my profile page. 07/March/2011  
**

"Hi.

I'm sorry none of this has been updated in years.

I've moved over to Fictionpress where I'm writing my own original stories. If you like my writing here, and I assume we have similar taste in books, then you might like what I'm writing now, so check it out.

I'm sending out a huge big thank you to everyone who has reviewed, and all your lovely comments on my writing. It's been so supportive and encouraging.

I'm really glad people are still reading and enjoying my stuff. Unfortunately I doubt I'll update these anymore, but I know some of them need an ending desperately. :) So I've put a poll at the top to decide which story I'm going to finish properly for you.

Thanks so much for reading,

Alias x"


End file.
